March Upcountry

"Jungles are beautiful," she continued in a mumble, "until you have to live in them."

Her eyes closed, and despite the heat, flies, and noise of festive preparation, she slept.

"You're making me proud, brother," Cord said, watching the gathering feast. Its lavishness would extract a price from the tribe, but it showed they were of good status. Something that would be important for this "Roger" to remember.

"It's the least I can do for my brother," Delkra replied. "Ayah! And for these odd strangers." He paused for a moment, then gave a grunting laugh. "They look like basik, you know."

Cord clacked his teeth sourly. "Thank you so much for pointing that out, brother. Yes, I'd made the same co

The small basik were often found around open areas in the jungle. Their mid-legs were foreshortened, and when they were frightened—which was virtually all the time—they ran on their hind legs with their upper limbs flopping loosely about. They were a beast of choice when it came to training young children to hunt, since they were small, harmless, cowardly, and stupid.

Very stupid.

"Get used to it, brother," Delkra said with another grunt. "Others will make the same co

"I suppose," Cord conceded. "And, demons know they're just about as stupid in the jungle. But although I've only seen those weapons of theirs used twice, I know to fear them. And rarely is the guard of a lord taken from among the most foolish. I don't underestimate them."

Delkra clapped his lower limbs together and changed the subject abruptly.

"Asi, at your age!"

"You keep saying that, brother," Cord observed. "You're not that much younger."

"Tell me a truth unknown," the chief replied somewhat sourly.

Cord understood, of course. Both of them would soon have to leave the Warrior Path, and although those who'd survived it enjoyed great status, few lived long thereafter. It was a thought neither enjoyed contemplating, and the shaman looked around, searching for a neutral change of subject. His gaze flitted about the familiar village which he soon would leave behind forever, and his eyes narrowed as he noticed a puzzling absence.

"Where is Deltan? Hunting?"

"One with the mists," Delkra said, rubbing his hands together to drive away bad luck. "An atul."

"What?" the shaman gasped. "How? He was surprised?"

"No," the chief snapped. "The spearhead broke."

"Ayah!" the shaman said, but he refused to show the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd never had children, not even daughters. A single paring as a youth had resulted in the death of the brood wife from an infection that was, unfortunately, all too common. Since then, he'd never taken another mate, and his brother's children had become as his own. Delkra certainly had enough to go around; half the females in the tribe had brooded a litter for him at some point. And he ran heavily to males in his broods.

But Deltan had been one of the special ones. He'd shown a flair for the learning of the shaman, and Cord had hoped that someday the fine young warrior might follow in his own footsteps. Now that was done, and it boded poorly for the tribe that he must leave with his asi and there would be no shaman to pass on the traditions. He'd hoped to pass on a few critical pieces of knowledge to Deltan before leaving, or perhaps to have him accompany them on the first leg of the humans' travels.

"Ayah," he repeated. "Evil times. The iron?"

"Bad," the chief spat. "Soft and rotten beneath a brittle exterior. It looked fine, but..."

"Aye," the shaman said, "but—"

"There's no other choice," the chieftain interrupted. "It must be war."

Cord clapped opposite hands in negation.

"If we war with Q'Nkok, the other tribes will pick our bones."

"And if we don't," the chief pointed out, "Q'Nkok will continue taking our lands and giving feck back! We must have the lands or the tribute. As it is, we have neither."

Cord clasped all four arms around his knees and rocked back and forth. His brother was correct; the tribe was in a lose/lose situation. They could neither survive a war with the local city-state nor permit the present intolerable trends to continue, yet war was the only way to stop it. There seemed no way out.

"Q'Nkok is to be our first stop," he observed after a moment. "The humans want to trade for such things as only the shit-sitters can provide. We will discuss this with the humans."

"But—" his brother started to object.

"The humans aren't good in the jungle," Cord overrode the objection, "but they are very wise, nonetheless. I know they're shit-sitters, but they're smart and, I think, honorable shit-sitters. If I had my old master here, I would ask him for advice. But I don't. Far Voitan is fallen, and all its heroes with it. I can't ask my master; therefore, we will ask the humans."

"You're a stubborn flar beast," Delkra told him.

"But I'm also right," Cord retorted with a grunting laugh.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Eleanora awoke to a high-pitched, atonal chanting and a low-tempo, muffled drum beat. Her eyes flickered open, and she froze in adrenaline shock at the sight of a swaying vampire larva. The perspective was weird as the flickering firelight of full dark combined with the swaying dance of the creature to make it seem a strange hallucination. It seemed to shrink to the size of a caterpillar, and then swelled suddenly up to the size of a... Mardukan in a mask.

The dancer swayed in the firelight, and as Eleanora blinked at him the long, dripping fangs of the beast were revealed as a crown about his head, the camouflaged body as a painted wrap. Behind the shuffling figure were more dancers: a giant, pincer-armed beetle, a two-armed snake like the legendary Naga, and a low, writhing, six-armed beast whose maw was filled with sharklike teeth.

The fog of sleep and firelight, the swaying of the dancers, the singing and drumbeats were hypnotic. Eleanora lay in a spell, trapped by the symbolism of the animistic rite as the drumbeats increased and the singing shifted through patterns of atonality. The tempo increased, and the dancers' rhythm became more frenzied, until with a final burst of song, now perfectly blended with the drums in tone and pitch, there was a final crash, and the dancers froze.

The audience was left with a feeling of pleasant incompleteness as the dancers departed and conversation broke out among the Marines and Mardukans. Eleanora tried to shake off her fog and looked around for something to help with the attempt, only to find herself rather dreamily contemplating a boot.

She blinked, and her eyes moved upward. The female Marine to whom the boot was attached stood at parade rest by her head, one arm behind her back, plasma gun cocked forward. Eleanora looked around, and discovered another one—this one a grenadier—at her feet. How interesting.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. It didn't help. She still felt like death warmed over, but at least her brain was a little clearer than before the nap. She looked up at the Marine at her head.

"How long was I out?" She hadn't checked the time at any point in the afternoon, so the current time, halfway through the local evening, told her nothing. Nor did her question communicate very much to the Marine. It came out mostly as a croak, so she cleared her throat and tried again.

"Corporal... Bosum, isn't it? How long was I sleep? And, thank you, but guarding me was probably u

"Yes, Ma'am." The Marine looked down and smiled. "But His Highness told us to make sure no one bothered you." She thought about the other question. "I don't know how long you were asleep before we got here, but we've been on guard for three hours."